


You can stay at my place, if you like

by charlottemadison



Series: The Longest Night [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Anthony J Crowley International Art Thief, Aziraphale appreciates pizza, Body Swap, Bodyswap, Canon Compliant, Crowley says Ngk, Crowley's Eyes (Good Omens), Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Dialogue Heavy, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Missing Scene, Of course Crowley has a rec room with swords in it, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Pre-Scene: Body Swap (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Teen tag for profanity, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), a nice and accurate floorplan of Crowley's flat, and a balcony with a fire pit and an amazing view, can be read as asexual, skulk ho, tornado in tartan, washing machines make decent demonic wine storage in a pinch, what if there's demons in the flat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22185391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottemadison/pseuds/charlottemadison
Summary: The Mayfair flat might be safe on the night of the Aflopalypse, or it might not. Beelzebub & Hastur have a grudge and an army and they know where Crowley lives, so caution may be in order? Especially since the door to the penthouse is standing ajar when our exhausted body swapped heroes get home from Tadfield."So you're saying you're going in alone. In my body. To my flat. Where you've never been."Aziraphale nodded."Maybe we should just go to a hotel?"Aziraphale saw two roads diverging: a night of brooding anxious melancholy and...the kind of night he preferred. He rallied. "And miss my chance to spy in your washroom cupboard? Never. I'm going in.""Oi!""I'm going to try on all your clothing and give you a manicure and take a nap. You'll have to sit here and wonder for hours.""Angel!" The word had no sibilants but Crowley could still broadcast a hiss somehow."You'll pace my feet to pieces while I pilfer your wine cellar alone.""You can fuck right off." Crowley gave him a sound swat on the arm. "See I'd never do that to you, but I can do it to me.""Is that the face I make when you wind me up? No wonder it's such fun for you."
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Longest Night [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1546606
Comments: 124
Kudos: 855





	You can stay at my place, if you like

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read alone, but it's part 3 of a series that starts with the bus ride and proceeds through the Night at Crowley's Flat in great detail & with tons of dialogue. It starts here: https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/51125932
> 
> If you like it subscribe for the rest!
> 
> I'm brand new at this and excited to meet y'all. I don't have socials, so if you like it, comment or recommend it! And feel free to repost/share on tumblr etc. Thanks AO3!

The penthouse door stood ajar.

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale roughly by the elbow and pulled him away down the hall, pressing a finger to his lips. The tenth floor emergency exit door opened silently for them with a wave of Crowley's hand, and they crowded into the bright white stairwell.

"The ques--" started Crowley. He froze as the syllables echoed booming down eleven stories of steel stairs and fire doors. As silence fell and no demonic ambush materialized, Crowley rolled his eyes mightily and stepped very _very_ close.

"Question is," whispered Crowley, lips nearly brushing the angel's ear, "did I leave that door open when I ran out this afternoon."

"Do you remember closing it?" Aziraphale asked with barely a breath on the demon's temple.

"Lot happened today. I was in a rush. No idea." Crowley tugged on his velvet waistcoat fretfully.

"What do you think our odds are?"

"They could be in there waiting for us. Could be we're worked up over nothing." He glanced sidelong at the angel, glimpsed his own sunglasses, and dropped his gaze. Aziraphale understood. It was bizarre being outside oneself, a funhouse mirror.

"I think......well." Crowley paused, then let the rest out in a rush. "If we're going in -- and we don't have to, we could just walk away -- but _if_ we go in our only tactical decision is, since they're here for me, can we risk them seeing you too?"

Aziraphale closed his eyes and reflected that it was difficult to think strategy in a strange corporation. Especially while adrenaline flooded it and mixed with whatever chemicals were triggered by holding one's face so terribly close to one's...er, to whatever Crowley would be now. They were practically cheek to cheek to hear each other. Was corporeal proximity supposed to be so dizzying? Perhaps Crowley's skin was extra heat-sensitive --

"Thoughts, angel?"

"Hemm." He kept his eyes closed and fought to speak while Crowley's breath skimmed his jaw. "Er. I am -- not at all confident they won't share my whereabouts with Heaven, if they find me here. Best not to tip our hand."

"So that means you're going in alone."

Aziraphale nodded.

"To my flat. Where you've never been."

Aziraphale nodded again, thought he felt eyelashes ghost against a cheek or chin. Were those his or no? His eyes fluttered open; he kept losing track of whose corporation was whose. He hadn't been this near to another body in decades, save young Warlock. It reminded him of the old days -- crowded Mediterranean streets, long marches over country, tiny boat cabins crossing oceans. One didn't touch so much this century.

The angel inhaled slowly. "Well then. Your flat, your plan. What are my instructions?"

Crowley sat down on the top step heavily, blue eyes vacant. Aziraphale joined him, perching carefully upright til he remembered to kick out his snakeskin boots and throw an arm behind him. He watched Crowley twirl his pinky ring fretfully and leaned in til their hair mingled.

"'S nice to play with," Crowley whispered.

"You should get one."

"Yeh, fidget spinner."

"Finch what? Don't wear a groove in my hand."

"You realize this is a legitimate _nightmare_ for me, angel, sending you into danger while I'm trapped in a sterile -- white -- staircage."

"I thought the whole point was to draw them out and get captured as quickly as possible."

"...Not to mention you'll be rummaging through my place without me."

"I wouldn't touch a thing."

"No but you'll -- ah fuck. This _really_ is not what I had in mind. Earlier." Crowley joined in the sprawling, awkward though it looked in the angel's corporation. "Maybe we should go to a hotel."

Aziraphale saw two roads diverging: a night of brooding anxious melancholy and...well, and the kind of night he preferred. In case this was to be his last. _Perish the thought._ He rallied.

"And miss my chance to spy in your washroom cupboard? Never. I'm going in."

"Oi!"

"I'm going to try on all your clothing and give you a manicure and take a nap. You'll have to sit here and wonder what's happened for hours."

"Angel!" The hushed word had no sibilants but Crowley could still broadcast a hiss somehow.

"You'll pace my feet to pieces while I pilfer your wine cellar alone."

"You can fuck _right_ off." Crowley gave him a sound swat on the arm. "See I'd never do that to you, but I can do it to me."

"Is that the face I make when you wind me up? No wonder it's such fun." Aziraphale chuckled silently, rolling up on one hip so he could glare pointedly over the sunglasses. "There's nobody in there," he swore in a whisper. "And if there is, then we'll be on the next phase of the plan and...and there we'll be. So tell me what to do."

Crowley rocked in his vintage cream and tartan and idly lit his index finger like a lighter a few times. "Hfffff. ...Search every room you find, open every door. Wait for someone to pounce. I don't think they're in it for surveillance, they just want to catch me, so. Doubt they'd hide for long. Not all that sharp."

"And if they pounce?"

"If they try holy water pray to Her it doesn't melt our sorry arse. Then scare them off best you can. If they -- _nmmm_. If they try to -- hurt you any other way, scream bloody murder and I'll be there."

Aziraphale nodded. "And if they take me?"

"If they take you to Hell, you offer token resistance, indignant shouting maybe, but you go. Don't scream or show fear. And don't struggle or they'll make it -- y'know. Harder." He huffed and patted his arm where he'd smacked it before. "Take care of the goods and all, I'm attached to this thing."

Aziraphale looked down a few steps at his lolling crossed feet. He debated whether to say it, decided he would. "It's terribly odd but I find I'm not at all afraid."

"You should be, angel. I mean I s'pose it's been a bit of a day already --"

"But I'm _always_ afraid, you see. Since day one at the wall. Perhaps it lends confidence, playing at being you. Or switching to Our Side."

Or perhaps, Aziraphale thought, it was that he was going in Crowley's stead. Going to keep him safe. Of all the risks he'd ever taken this one might scare him the least. His inability to protect Crowley from Hell had been _his_ legitimate nightmare for a thousand years; now he had a role, a script, even wardrobe. Aziraphale decided he could do this every day of the week from now on. He sidled even closer on the concrete landing.

"So once I'm down there -- when they drag me to Hell -- who can I expect to see? And do I need to learn anything like an ID number, passwords, other things they'll expect you'd know?"

Crowley raised blonde eyebrows. "Good question. I know the Host so I forgot you won't know mine. There's quite a cast of characters. You've seen Lord Beelzebub already today, do you know Dagon? or Legion?"

The demon curved close, making parallel crooked lines of their bodies -- barely centimeters between them, stem to stern -- and for several minutes he whispered the secrets of Hell into Aziraphale's tingling ear.

The clever angel was a quick study.

He repeated back dozens of names, job titles, stories, and directions, and soon had them down by rote.

If the angel's face was rather flushed as he stood up to undertake mission Infiltrate The Flat, nobody said anything about it. He brushed off his black jeans and shook out spindly arms and legs, settled into Crowley's posture again. Put a hand in his pocket, cocked an eyebrow as he reached for the door.

"Allons-y," Aziraphale mouthed coyly over his shoulder as he left.

 _"Angel!"_ Crowley leaned out and smacked his boot. He crooked a finger, _come here,_ so Aziraphale whirled and stooped down. "Watch your feet angel, mind the mess of demon goo in my office. I'm not eager to test holy water on either of us unless it really comes to it."

"Oh." And that was the moment -- nose to nose, crouched on his heels, balanced with one hand on the dusty floor -- that Aziraphale considered the faint possibility they might not see one another again.

Not ever.

_Oh._

He knew from Crowley's reaction that he was losing his cool. His knees shook and his mouth worked silently. He shuddered with an urge to grab the demon, to make some kind of contact, and the only thing that put him off was the pain of beholding his _own_ unappealing face before him while he remained trapped inside the body he wanted to cling to. He clenched his own knee with a spidery white hand as the possibilities flooded in:

_Agnes mentions fire but not water, what if the water works just fine? Or what if this corporation dies and I ascend again, they'd have me in Heaven and the game would be up. Or what if they imprison and torture one of us eternally? What if I accidentally say 'pip pip?' What if only one of us survives and has to live eternally, immune to both hellfire and holy water, no way out, forever trapped in the body of --_

"Fuck _,_ " the angel said aloud for the second time.

It rang down the stairwell, shivering the spine of the tower.

Crowley reached forward with a soft ringed hand. He touched the angel's trembling chest -- and abruptly shoved him back onto his confused arse, legs splayed akimbo on the floor.

 _"Crowley_. Go save Aziraphale," the demon whispered harshly. "That's what you do, you skinny tosser. March into my fucking flat and save the fucking day again. Fucker." He pointed to the door, staring his own body down steely-eyed.

 _Oh. He's thought through all of this already. Of course he has,_ Aziraphale told himself. _And this is how I save him. Us. By going to Hell and taking this chance._

"Sorry, er -- just -- it -- hit me. ...Stakes're high. And all that." Aziraphale gathered his wayward limbs and gripped a handrail to get up again.

"Shake it off soldier boy, you're on Our Side now."

"Right." And Aziraphale did. Their faint murmurs were giving way to loud stage whispers, caution evaporating bit by bit.

"I want the coffee you promised me, angel," Crowley hissed.

"Sir, understood, sir."

"You have the easy job anyway. I'll sit here going absolutely barmy while I await the screams."

"I'll make sure they're rousing. Worth waiting for." Aziraphale shook out his wrists and smoothed his jacket. "Oh! Oh I should give you --" he produced Crowley's mobile from a pocket.

Crowley shot to his feet, eyes hungry for his favorite distraction. He reached, then held back. "Won't you need...?"

"Take it. You said you'd order us a pizza."

Crowley softened at the mercy clearly extended to him. Nothing agonized him like waiting. "Thank you," he whispered tenderly, cradling the phone. Then he thrust it roughly into Aziraphale's face to unlock it.

"Well. " Their eyes met across the threshold as the angel embarked. Eyes and sunglasses, rather. They both smiled. "Mind how you go, angel," said Crowley.

"Toodle-oo."

_"Toodle-oo?!"_

What in heaven, wondered the angel as he shut the fire door on Crowley's incredulous sneer. He had read the great literature of every age, memorized poetry and prose in every language on earth, but when it came time to say his possibly-but-hopefully-not-final goodbye to his best -- well, to his _Crowley_ , his cursed brain supplied 'toodle-oo?'

The open door loomed down the hall.

Aziraphale willed himself into every mindfulness practice he knew: here he was, now, in this body, taking a walk. He would observe the flat without analysis, without worry, he would simply look and listen and smell, and --

Oh! He'd forgotten about smell. He let his mouth drop open a touch, as he'd seen Crowley do, marveling at how much his strictly human corporation had been missing. The world grew a new dimension, a ceiling raised and a window opened. It was like tasting food from a cuisine so foreign he couldn't identify a single ingredient or spice: _so_ much delightful new information, frustratingly impossible to alphabetize. Still, new information was thrilling even if it resisted taxonomy.

Could he smell demons? As he reached the door he learned that yes, he very much could. That answered that. Crowley'd mentioned the mess of goo. Brimstone, sulfur, mildew, putrescence, and blazing above it a metallic tang of sanctity. Aziraphale shut his mouth against the scent, not that it helped much, and entered the flat. His flat.

Should he swagger in boldly or sneak about? What would they expect? Strategy was more Crowley's specialty. _Be here now. Be Crowley now. Know what he knows._

If demons were lurking they could be anywhere and any size, microscopic even. They couldn't be scouted or sniffed out. They might have a trap of some kind at the ready. Crowley would know this. And they'd know he knew.

With the place smelling like this, Aziraphale reasoned, they'd expect Crowley to skulk about slowly for danger. That was a relief; he didn't want to swagger, as he still feared he could pull off either the walk or the rest of the body, not the whole package at once.

Skulking it would be then. Skulk ho.

He pocketed the sunglasses, thought away his shoes and edged along the wall in the dark. The clarity of Crowley's eyesight was astounding, they'd been made for this purpose: stalking prey. Evading enemies.

The place was a maze of corners, all misdirection and escape routes, and he could make no sense of the layout. There were even extra corners in the corners, he observed as he entered the first room -- an atrium? A conservatory? A bunker? What was it? The looming cubist spaces all defied description beyond their use at any moment.

But this one was well used. The cold grey possibly-an-atrium was host to the organic riot of a tropical garden. Greenery only, no flowers, but the lushest and most verdant Aziraphale had ever seen indoors. And the smell of it! Symphonic, brilliant as a desert sunrise.

Shoots and vines reached for him as living things tended to do. He ran his hands through the shining greyish foliage, delighted at the thought of Crowley glimpsing them in full color tonight. Soon. It would happen. Aziraphale basked in the beauty of what his friend had created, thinking of the years he must have put in, and --

He reprimanded himself harshly. This was not a museum. Candy Crush or no, Crowley would be apoplectic with worry every passing minute. He left the garden.

Down a foreboding hallway he found some...fascinating statuary, but more importantly five doors. He opened each in turn as instructed, poised for a pounce. None came. Two were closets, the glass door was a deep wine safe, and the last down the hall was a sort of workshop filled with devices, tools, gadgets and schematics -- even welding gear and an industrial sewing machine. The devil's playground, Aziraphale smirked. He'd have smiled but this was Crowley's corporation. Smirk.

The next door had a complex mechanical lock and seals. _Climb every mountain,_ thought Aziraphale, _open every door._ Giving thanks for Crowley's explicit orders, he snapped. The weighted door floated open effortlessly, though the rubber sweeps around the edge scraped some. The room was pitch black even to Crowley's eyes. "Light," said Aziraphale with a click of his fingers.

Everything was illuminated. He spun slowly in place, staggered, and tried not to express shock beyond throwing a hand over his pounding heart. The climate controlled room had a massive sealed door because it housed the most stunning private art collection he'd ever seen.

Nothing hung on the windowless walls; instead masterpiece after masterpiece stood in vast racks and lay in labeled flat files, some framed, some rolled. Sculpture and artifacts sat on high shelves or under glass. One corner held a workbench (much like his own) with tools ancient and modern for restoration.

The art looked easy enough to browse, nothing was buried or wrapped save some padding around the frames. But it also wasn't intended for display or ostentation. This was a personal treasure horde. It was meant to _keep_. He couldn't really view the paintings in their racks, but on the back of a canvas he noted a pencilled dedication to Crowley, signed A.M.

Aziraphale shivered. He wondered which A.M., and found his tongue was suddenly full of sensation against his teeth as he entertained images of Crowley stealing these works from cruel plutocrats -- or perhaps liberating them from war zones -- rescuing them from neglect in musty attics -- bidding on them coolly at auction in a black suit -- and of course being gifted them over millennia by geniuses celebrated and obscure. Why was this line of thinking so _exciting?_ His skin felt unaccountably attuned to the air, the feel of his clothing.

He ran a hand through Crowley's hair to clear his thoughts but that did _not_ help.

Right then. Learning new things. On to the next.

He continued into the labyrinth beyond the garden -- more corners, more obfuscation. The scent of sulfur grew stronger. There was the eagle-capped stone pulpit from that ill-fated church in 1941, standing guard in the hall. He'd seen it at Crowley's place in the seventies (a trendy mod apartment with a conversation pit, those had been good times). And there was the Da Vinci sketch across the way! A signature piece in Crowley's lodgings for centuries now. Aziraphale darted toward it as if to greet an old friend, but pulled up short:

Ah. That'd be the demon puddle then.

The office reeked but he couldn't resist the compulsion to open his mouth, and _augh_ that was the worst. Why on earth? Was Crowley's body _itself_ created to sabotage him with its impulses? He coughed and spat miserably to no avail.

In his own corporation he could've dealt with the mess but Crowley's would be taking the long way round. He found a back hallway in what he'd first thought to be dead end, and in it a few more doors to check. Quickly now, Crowley must be smoking at the ears.

Bedroom there. With a bed. And quite a large mahogany bookcase. Don't think about it. Not thinking about it. There. Not being thought about.

Master WC: no entity on earth, mortal or eternal, could require a tub that large nor that many showerheads.

Master closet: mirrors and heavy blankets, booze and a backscratcher, no clothing whatsoever.

A private theater, treated with acoustic paneling and filled with shapeless crimson sacks for lounging. Scattered gaming controllers and empty bottles convened in flocks around the karaoke machine. A billiard table lurked in the back with a pillow on it for some reason; the cues leaned up in a corner amid a clutter of swords and spears from across the ages.

At last Aziraphale reached the far end of the penthouse, the gleaming open kitchen and uninviting sitting room. His circuit was complete.

For good measure he opened every last door he could find -- the balcony (just as lush with plants as the atrium), the pantry (stocked exclusively with scores of unused kitchen appliances), a utility closet (wine bottles stacked in the front-loading washer and dryer, bourbon and Scotch up top), the refrigerator and cupboards (liquids only, including Aziraphale's preferred brands of tea and cocoa).

He recalled with a start _why_ he was exploring Crowley's flat alone. Demons! Right. He nearly forgot to be ready to be dragged away by demons. There hadn't been any in the bedroom. Which he was not thinking about, and which had not distracted him from the danger of demons in every room after.

The only demon here now is me, mused Aziraphale.

Unless. Unless they were waiting for something more before pouncing. Evidence? Information? Maybe they were waiting for him to call the angel and discuss strategy. The habit of feeling watched wouldn't leave the principality quietly.

He tried the last thing he thought might draw them out: a leap and a mighty sprawl all over the rigid leather couch, broadcasting relief and exhaustion. Letting his guard down. His head lolled back against the wall as he closed his eyes and counted to a hundred.

Nothing happened. Except that at least seventeen distinct and very complicated feelings fluttered inside him for attention, louder every minute.

He ordered them to settle down in there. He was still uncertain, still felt watched, but enough. It was time.

The fire door burst open on Crowley with a resounding crash. He yelped, jumped and fumbled his beloved mobile. It bounced off a railing, off a stair, down the center of the stairwell --

Aziraphale leaned grinning in the doorframe, the picture of insouciance. He snapped and serenely offered Crowley his phone.

"Dropped this."

Crowley ngked as he accepted it back. Aziraphale stalked away, boots clacking down the hall. "Let's go, angel," he called over his shoulder at the demon.

"You can't just -- _Aziraphale!"_

"Been inviting you for ages, never thought you'd come 'round. Dying to show you the place."

"It's my place! Slow down, you leggy bastard."

"Keep up."

Crowley chased him up to the penthouse door indignantly. "You think you're cute but you're not, not with that face. So you're safe then? It's safe?"

Aziraphale tried a noncommital grunt paired with eyebrows in response. This was fun.

"Swap back then?"

"There's a few things you might enjoy seeing first. Ah, not to mention it might be wise to continue as we are for just a bit longer." Aziraphale gave him a significant look. "You understand. We can't be entirely sure." He tried the door handle, whereupon he learned it was impossible to look cool while locked out of one's own flat. "Oh! Fffffiddlesticks."

Crowley laughed a single cutting blast. "HA!"

Aziraphale felt for keys, didn't find any. He snapped the door open and tried to recover his rock star stance. "Don't you have keys?"

"Did this morning. Gone now. Foomp."

"Ah."

"Pizza's coming."

"Coffee's on. Come on in, angel."

Crowley stormed the place, a tornado in ivory and tartan. He snapped on all the lights at once and quickmarched through each room like a being possessed (which he rather was). Aziraphale donned sunglasses again -- every indoor light seemed too bright through these eyes -- and listed against a wall in the garden, toying lazily with a rubber plant like a cat. He thought he was making rather good progress at leaning. He tried casting chilling glares this way and that as a next step. The plants trembled.

The demon made some ruckus in the kitchen and returned to the garden with a steaming black mug.

"I see you're making yourself right at home then, angel," said Aziraphale drily. It was fun to watch the effect of the word "angel" on the demon.

"Mm. Lovely place you have here." Crowley sipped, spinning slowly to regard each plant in turn. His face deescalated from fierce worry into a soft wonderment that looked nearly angelic. "These are. Mm. Very. Very _green."_

"So they are." The angel drank in his friend's awe, wrestling to keep his smile reined in or at least sufficiently devious. Full spectrum color vision seemed to be the hit of the evening.

"They're...quite something."

"I'm rather proud of them."

"You shouldn't be," Crowley hissed. "They can surely do better, my dear."

Aziraphale sauntered off toward the kitchen. "So now you've had a look 'round as well, what's your -- sense of things? How d'you feel?"

Crowley shuffled behind, nursing his coffee. "You mean, do I think we're safe. Here. Now."

"That."

"Well do you?"

Aziraphale hopped onto the kitchen island and swung his legs. "No idea."

Crowley ambled to the massive vinyl collection in the living room and ran searching fingers across a meter or so of record spines. He settled on early Duke Ellington, an old favorite all around. The angel read it as a clear gesture of compromise: a welcome-to-my-place record. He smiled down at his dangling feet as the band began to play.

The demon downed his coffee standing at the bar counter and then pulled out a hightop chair to hang up Aziraphale's beloved overcoat.

But the moment he had the coat in hand he recoiled, looking positively ill. "Oh gracious!"

"What's wrong?" asked Aziraphale.

"You've gotten soot and streaks all over it, you -- you foul fiend. I don't know how I didn't notice in the lobby." Even as Crowley pretended to complain his prim voice broke on a note of shame. The coat bore black smudges and fingerprints everywhere, especially across the left shoulder. Traces of a demon resting his sooty head on the angel's arm during the bus ride home. Proof that they'd been that close, in their own bodies, not two hours before.

"S'pose I'd better get myself cleaned up," chuckled Aziraphale, trying too hard to lighten the moment.

It didn't work. Crowley's eyes radiated genuine distress, like he felt dirty. Like a stain needed scrubbing out. "I can fix it."

"No don't --" Aziraphale reached out urgently.

"Don't? ......But. My dear. Whyever not?"

"I mean --" Aziraphale grasped for a coherent reason, embarrassed. _Don't erase the evidence just yet. All the proof of what we did is gone, from paintball stains to the bookshop._ "I mean I'll take care of it. Later. Sss. Not that bad."

"Oh? You have...left its care to me in the past."

"I know. But." Confound it, they were as good as speaking in code, bodyswapped. Aziraphale swallowed hard. "I mean, I'd just get it dirty again, lookit me, still a mess. Ashes everywhere. Shouldn't be on the counter even, health hazard." He slipped down and tried to remember how standing worked.

Crowley cocked his head, oddly suspended between remorse and curiosity. "Oh _reeeeally_. You'd get it dirty again?"

"Unh. Well."

"And how pray tell might that happen? You know this is my favorite coat, did you plan to...sully it further tonight?" Crowley rounded the bar with an expression both strained and intrigued. A strange kinetic tension mounted across the kitchen. Aziraphale backed behind the island clumsily and stammered with Crowley's voice.

"I. Ah. Nm. I don't."

Crowley's mobile rang. Strains of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' clamoring over the Duke.

"This is sodding ridiculous," growled Crowley, entirely himself again.

"It is," Aziraphale confirmed. They both were.

"I need a drink, angel."

"You said we should stay sober."

"We can't keep looking over our shoulders for-fucking-ever. We have to get on with it."

"Answer the thing, will you."

Crowley did, and told the driver to leave their pizza on the bench in the lobby (where they'd find a tip which was manifesting at that very moment). He swiped over to his link to the building's security cameras and watched the purple-haired young person come and go, then miracled the pies straight into the kitchen.

Meanwhile Aziraphale cleared all the Bentley soot and bookstore ash from Crowley's corporation with a gesture, then went to fetch a bottle of red from the washing machine and glasses from the rack. He stood where he bodily blocked any view of his coat and hoped it could stay peaceably sullied without further discussion.

"Shall we switch back again?" he asked as he wrestled the cork out. "I'd rather like to be myself for the rest of the night; heaven only knows how long we'll have to endure this when it's really time."

Crowley looked askance and blushed like an angel. "Could we -- um -- in just a few more minutes? I might like to...erm, dine together."

"Why -- I never!" Aziraphale exclaimed. "You want to borrow my sense of taste too!"

Crowley picked up the pizza boxes and summoned a second bottle of red. "If you've any taste at all you've never used it. Somebody ought to."

"Ooh, a hit, a palpable hit. Where are you taking the food?"

Crowley backed into the glass door and pushed. "Outside. Come on."

The balcony was quite large, dramatically lit and open to the stars, fenced in by a railing of etched glass and steel. Outdoor furniture sat arranged in the round as if to entertain a dozen or more, though the cushions showed no sign of use. Crowley lit his index finger and sparked a lovely indigo gas fire in a basin stacked with igneous rocks.

"This is enchanting," mused the angel as he took it all in. "Though I certainly thought you'd have had your fill of fire for today."

"I really did, but it's not the fire's fault. 'S just doin' its job. Why, were you bothered by jugs of water after the flood?" He pulled a low table near the fire to set out the spread.

"A bit," Aziraphale admitted. He bent out over the railing and pushed up his sunglasses to look across London after dark. The apocalyptic storms had swept the summer air unusually clean, and timorous container flowers perfumed the night. The city stretched to the horizon below them.

"It's all still here," he murmured.

Crowley joined him at the edge and took the open wine bottle in hand. "All still here."

Aziraphale offered up glasses for the pour, passed one over. They toasted reflexively and drank. The Duke's band played low.

"Taste any different to you?" asked Aziraphale.

Crowley sipped again and considered. "Nnnnope. 'S good though. View's nice. So many of the lights are red, never knew."

"You, er, have visitors up here often?"

"Nah. Jus' you."

"And the puddle."

"You 'n the puddle. You're my first houseguest not trying to kill me."

"Oh, give me time, I'm sure we'll get there by dawn." Aziraphale let his mouth fall open again, scenting the air, closing his eyes for several beats against the rush of detailed sensation. It really was like seeing new colors. He sighed heavily against the breeze. "I hate to admit it, but you -- you can _really_ taste wine."

"Is it different for you? I don't notice anything."

"You're something special is all. Thanks for the ride."

Crowley turned to lean his back against the railing and pinched the bridge of his nose. "The _ride?_ Ffffss.......you can't just fuckin' _say_ shit like that to me, angel."

"It really is a perfect night for this."

"Might well be our last."

"Then it's a perfect last night. We can decide to think of it that way. And Crowley, they're all still -- so -- alive!" Aziraphale looked over the edge and lost himself in reverie, tracing streets he knew from above. He'd watched most of them spring up from cowpaths. He'd been here for a number of plagues, ever so many royals, a few churches, war after war after war in an awful crescendo as powers rose and fell. But it was going _on._ The world went on.

"You know, old Serpent," he sighed into the dark, "I don't believe I very much like who I would have been if I'd never known you."

It felt right to confess, tonight.

He turned to say more but instead he caught a terribly surprised iteration of himself frozen on the couch, apparently debating whether to finish chewing a large mouthful of pizza.

"Mmfg," said Crowley.

Aziraphale laughed at him. "Of course I expect you'd have been the same regardless. One of a kind."

"'F I never met you?" managed the demon, mouth still full. Aziraphale joined him on the settee and tapped his sunglasses down again to mellow the blazing firelight.

"You're always changing but at the same time you don't really, do you."

Crowley shook his head furiously and chased his pizza with an entire glass of wine. Then he lurched and grunted like a car failing to shift gears as he started to speak -- stopped -- started again -- stared up into his own sunglasses -- tried for a word -- lost it with an _ngk_ \-- and finally settled on refilling his wine to drink heartily.

"Really my dear, I thought you wanted to stay sober tonight in case of danger?"

"We can sober up between bottles," Crowley gasped and sipped again. "Maybe every two. I can't quite...without. All this talk. And things. Without. I don't."

"If you say so. How's the pizza?" Aziraphale offered him a lifeline since he was fragmenting.

"Oh! 'S much the same really." Mercifully the demon turned from the wine back to the food. "Only I'm actually properly hungry."

"So I see," observed the angel, reaching for a slice. Three were polished off already.

"It's nice."

"To eat?"

"To want to eat."

Aziraphale tasted the pizza at last and moaned with thrice his signature indecency. They were rustic Northern Italian style crusts with prosciutto crudo, local mozzarella, imported Parmesan, fresh tomatoes and garlic and arugula -- and they wouldn't dare to cool a degree from the moment they left the brick oven. He hated to admit it, but the amplified sense of smell transformed the flavor from divine to ecstatic. In this Crowley had him beat. Perhaps the demon ate so little because he tasted so much.

It was new to dine together for several minutes, a full meal for each. New but _nice_. Of course Aziraphale couldn't say so without eliciting growls, so he didn't.

"Easier coping with the eyesight now?" he asked.

"Oh heaven yes." Crowley turned to the barrel of bright summer blooms at his elbow and tugged the clematis tipsily. "Can't smell worth a damn but this almost makes up for it. How's the nose?"

"Mm. It is nice with the wine. Of course your sense of smell is no olfactory treat when it comes to your ex-houseguest in there."

"Yeah, wouldn't be, no." Crowley pondered the fire and finished his sixth slice. "I stole them all. Stole your colors. And left you with sulfur."

 _You don't smell like sulfur though_ , thought Aziraphale, _you never have_. Other demons reeked of Hell. Crowley smelled like the desert. Or was it just that they'd spent a few thousand years together in the desert? Perhaps he couldn't distinguish the memory of Crowley from the smells of salt, charcoal, aloe, spices, fragrant tree bark, sunset on slow rivers. They'd known each other so very long.

"You're quite welcome to my colors, dear. Help yourself."

"Mmn."

"Though I was wondering," Aziraphale continued breezily, "you must have seen in color Before?"

Crowley sat up straight as the angel gasped and put a hand to his mouth, yearning to take the thoughtless question back. There was no doubt which Before he meant and they _did not talk about that_.

"Nnmh." A hitch caught Crowley's throat, but he proceeded anyway, blue eyes downcast. "Didn't have a corporation before, did I? Never saw the planet any other way. It was only ethereal stuff Before, no optometry involved." He sank down toward the fire again and gazed into the flames from inches away. "So this whole thing's a fuckin' _trip."_

Aziraphale sighed thankfully. Crowley was choosing camaraderie over drama, had done a dozen times tonight at least. "How very odd to hear myself swear so much."

"How very odd to hear myself say 'How very odd.' I mean it angel, I thought psychedelic drugs were interesting but pssssssshh." He smiled and waved absently. "This is something the fuck else."

"Well if we survive the night you're welcome to take the ol' corporation for a spin anytime, to the botanical gardens or the IMAX on LSD if you like," the angel offered amiably. "...We could even take a look at your art collection one of these days. Like this."

The Serpent of Eden inhaled sharply. "I -- oh. ...I can't decide whether I want to. I'd have to think about that."

Azirapahale nodded. "I understand. Time enough to make a decision like that later."

"Or not, but. Still."

"Quite right."

Crowley rocked a little to comfort himself and hummed along absently with the descending lilt of "Sophisticated Lady." Aziraphale warmed his hands at the fire and inhaled the night air, trying to memorize its extradimensional richness, thinking about stars over distant deserts.

"It's not true, you know," Crowley said at length without looking up. "What you said."

Aziraphale waited for more, sunglasses full of flames. It was a long time coming but Crowley continued at last:

"I'm nothing like I would have been if I never met you."

Aziraphale sipped and sat. When no more followed, he asked "How's that?"

"I'm glad we don't get to know is all. Glad it -- went this way instead."

"Oh, _Crowley."_

"Angel."

With that Crowley seemed to unfold all at once, stretching toward the satellites, larger than life. He reared up on his feet and the full charge of his personality came crackling back as if it had been muzzled for eleven years; when he grinned it struck wide and wicked and fabulous. "Well! 'S been bloody lovely so far, but on the off chance I'm stuck like this for awhile I'd rather round out the night with the original flavor. If you're ready."

He cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders broadly, and how had he ever fit into that little body? They were of a height but Crowley always seemed to burst with something so much _more._ Aziraphale felt small now inside the lanky limbs he wore, unable to reach the ends.

"Quite," was all he could say to that.

"This is really _not_ my color scheme as I am now authoritatively aware."

"I assure you, you look divine in Tartan."

"Precisely the problem, divine. Ugh. An' you look like a right git, I hate it, I want to see _you_ sitting over there 'n not me. Unappealing's what it is."

"Oh you don't fool me," Aziraphale grinned. "You think you're sexy. You rather like it."

"Nah, sick of all your twiggy stick bug sunglass muppet nonsense already. Begone, foul fiend." Crowley offered a hand to help him up.

"And I must say it doesn't do much for me, chatting up a drab and dowdy middle-aged bookseller, so I'm happy enough to --"

Crowley _snarled_ like an animal. Aziraphale backpedaled in shock, hands up.

"You fucking _daaaare_ come over to my place and talk shit about _MY_ angel --"

He stepped to, enraged, but Aziraphale doubled over laughing.

"Crowley -- do you have any idea -- _any idea --_ how ridiculous you look doing that with my face!"

Crowley fumed and snorted, practically pawing the ground with his foot. "Gimme back my nails so I can scratch you."

"Really my dear," Aziraphale laughed, "you can't insult me all the livelong day and then reprimand me for –"

 _"I'll_ oversee the insults 'round here at Our Side central," barked Crowley. "Division of labor. 'S not your job, Principality. Don't let me catch you at it again."

Aziraphale wiped his eyes under the sunglasses as his chuckling faded into deep gasping breaths and a settling sensation of peace. Our Side was all right. "Are you ready then, old Serpent?" He extended a hand.

Crowley glanced over his shoulder one more time at the brilliant violet and gold of the fire. Then he reached for Aziraphale. "Yeah. 'S good. Thanks for the pizza."

It was easy as breathing. Simple as going home.

There was some amount of shifting, squirming, adjusting clothing, shaking out limbs. Aziraphale couldn't hold back some of the happy sounds he was known to make over dessert, the sheer joy of embodiment welling up and overflowing. Crowley flung his sunglasses to the far deck chair like they'd bit him. He shed his jacket, pushed up his shirtsleeves, and squeezed his eyes shut tight to give his entire head and neck a good hard scrub with both hands. After which of course he miracled his hair back to perfection.

When Crowley looked through his fingers again everything was a bit grey and fuzzy. But he could smell him again, smell Aziraphale. He'd been noseblind to him for hours and it felt like having his hands tied. "Auuuugh," he groaned, staggered by the relief of hearing his own voice. "'Ziraphale. You're back."

Then he saw him, blinking blue eyes and smiling, sharply in focus down to the finest platinum hair on his head. Crowley felt dizzy with the righteous momentum of the world being set back on its rails. There'd been a lot of that feeling today, really.

"My dear. It's so very good to see you again."

The angel really had a hell of a smile. Heaven of a. Whatever. It was something.

"Yeah nng. So." Crowley shuffled his feet. "Thatwasfun. But ah -- this is -- ng -- better."

"I quite agree," chimed Aziraphale. He surveyed the balcony and the city again in rapt amazement, taking a second first look.

"You're. You're in my house," said Crowley, dumbfounded.

He was fast realizing he had no script for this next part. They'd caught the bus, solved the riddle, practiced their magic act, and made it safe to the hideaway. What now? _Think, think think think you invited him over and he's lost everything he holds dear today, what the heaven did you plan to do next you absolute pillock?_

The unperturbed angel retrieved their wine glasses with care, movements all gentled as he readjusted to his own form. "Which is which?" he asked. "I've lost track."

Crowley laughed and took the emptier one to clink. "Exactly. Here's to not knowing. Cheers, angel."

"Cheers, my darling. Thank you for having me."

 _Darling. Having me._ Crowley felt his face overheating so he collapsed into the couch to avoid eye contact. Evasive maneuvers. There were risks when the sunglasses came off.

His legs writhed some with the itch of freedom, and once he'd indulged them in some sinuous stretching he luxuriated into an impossibly broad firelit sprawl. He lazed an arm out along the back of the settee -- right around where Aziraphale had been sitting before -- and prayed to _someone_ it looked casual.

Aziraphale poured out the last of the bottle in equal shares. "I didn't know you had some work done," he observed brightly.

"Nh?"

"Your ink." Crowley looked down at his exposed forearm, wine glass in hand. A hint of black linework coiled down around his elbow. Of course the angel'd call it "ink" like that, like it was nothing; he lived in Soho. _Be cool, Crowley._

"It was yours a minute ago. Had you really never seen that? I've had it awhile."

"Since when? What is it?"

Crowley looked up at his extremely brave angel and told himself in no uncertain terms to fucking get a grip and be brave too.

He patted the seat right next to him. "Sit down, angel. I'll tell you all about it if you want."

Aziraphale held his gaze intensely for a moment, then sat down. Quite close. Nearly as close as on the bus. They faced the fire and drank.

"So," said Crowley, sneaking his outstretched hand up by inches til it nearly brushed the angel's shoulderblade, "In the event that tonight is the last night of our long and storied existence, angel, what d'you want to do?"

Aziraphale smiled softly into the golden light, out over the city. "This."

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have socials to promote this, so if you liked it, comment or recommend it! Thanks so much! If you like it subscribe for the rest!
> 
> This is continued from the end of 'Recounting the Deeds of the Day' (the bus ride) but both can stand alone as well. https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/51125932
> 
> I just started a new baby Tumblr, don't know what I'm doing yet but it's fun, so say hi: https://charlottemadison42.tumblr.com/


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